by Daniel Mason
He tells me to hold out my own hand and I do so without a thought. The pain doesn’t really register, maybe because my hands are numb from the cold. The blood brings warmth to my outer body, and I cradle the wound as Spencer paddles away, leaving a trail of his blood as dark as the ocean. In a minute he’s back on the waves, ignorant of his wound.
I draw my legs up onto the board where I can put my chin on my knees. For a moment I’m rocking unsteadily, and then my balance settles. I look down at my palm but I can’t see the wound through the blood, and the first reaction is to wash the blood away in the water. I do it, tempting death. When I get a good look at my wound it’s deep and I know it will need stitches.
I curl my palm into a fist, squeezing blood onto the board. I hold tight until I’m sure the blood flow is considerably lessened. The cold is biting at me.
Spencer continues to surf without a care in the world.
I don’t spy a single fin nearby. I don’t see much of anything at all.
The gulls are cawing and the sound strikes me as eerie, and I almost consider paddling in; Spencer doesn’t really need me out here, but I tell myself I have nothing to be afraid of. It’s the fear that really bites you and gives the adrenaline rush. You don’t need a set of shark teeth for this at all. I finally understand and paddle in without Spencer, and it’s not until I reach the shore that I realise how excited I am.
I’m not afraid of death because I know it’s coming. I know because it’s inside of me.
Fear is one of the vital elements that keeps us alive and makes us human. I’m not afraid to die. It happens to everybody. But there’s a certain amount of fear involved in putting yourself at risk. Fear of the pain that comes with failure, that blinding pain before death sets in.
I’m looking at the open wound on my hand, and the skin has been pulled tight from the cold and the water and I can see right through the layers of my flesh.
I turn back to the ocean, and Spencer isn’t there. For a moment I can’t see him at all, and I feel a slight grip on my heart as I think that a shark might actually have taken him. But that would be stupid. That would be predictable.
Spencer is paddling in and soon he’s at the shore, smiling and laughing.
Our stitches are received in tandem. Eight across the palm of our left hands. The doctor is looking at us like we’re insane, and it takes a great deal of effort to convince him otherwise before he starts smiling. Spencer is telling us this story about a guy he knows who was speared by his own surfboard. He’s saying, ‘Wetsuit was the only thing holding his innards in place.’
The doctor won’t believe the story, and Spencer says, ‘It’s true, goddamnit. I swear it’s true, man. Three hundred stitches and all that did it to him was his own board.’
When we’re finished, Spencer asks where we can go for a good drink, and the doctor obliges with directions. In the car I ask Spencer, I don’t know why, if Juliet has a boyfriend.
He says, ‘Why? You interested in her?’
I tell him I don’t know.
He says, ‘You should be. I’ve seen the way she looks at you.’
I tell him I hadn’t really noticed, even though I had.
He says, ‘I hear she’s wild in bed.’
The frown on my face feels like invisible hands are roughly contorting my features. ‘This is your sister you’re talking about.’
He nods and says, ‘Yeah,’ as if I’m asking for confirmation.
We’re in a small country pub drinking and there are maybe two or three beers in us when a man comes up to the bar and he sees the stitches in my face and he says, and I swear this is exactly what he asks me, he says, ‘What happened to you? You try to kiss the mirror and it break or somethin’?’ There’s a long flat silence after this, and the girl behind the bar gives an uncomfortable chuckle in an attempt to break it.
I roll my eyes and Spencer politely suggests the man fuck off.
This man, he’s big and broad shouldered and wearing a flannel jacket. He hasn’t shaved for about a week. He says, ‘Hey, okay. Lighten up, I’m just messin’ around.’
He takes his beer and wanders back to the table where he’s seated with another group of truckers. It seems they pay us little attention, and soon they’re chuckling and talking among themselves, drinking beer and talking about women.
The girl at the bar says to us, ‘I thought there was going to be some trouble for a second there.’
Spencer says, ‘What? From that guy? No way.’
We go back to minding our own business and Spencer tells me the story about the time he did an instructional dive with a middle-aged woman strapped to his back. Between bursts of wheezing laughter Spencer says, ‘She fucking pissed on me, man. I swear she pissed herself.’
I’m doubled over against the bar coughing and laughing and Spencer starts slapping me on the back. The girl at the bar stares at us, bewildered.
We leave the bar as dusk is settling outside and Spencer says maybe we should check into the motel over the road and we can catch a flight back to Sydney in the morning. As he talks he’s flexing his palm, opening and closing, looking at the line of stitches.
I say, ‘Whatever you want. You’re in charge of this expedition.’
I’m looking west toward the sun setting over flat earth. The door to the pub behind us opens but we aren’t really paying a lot of attention until we’re surrounded by truckers.
One of them is shoving Spencer and saying, ‘Hey, dick-head. You think you can talk to my mate like the way you did in there?’
Spencer seems largely unperturbed. What he says, grabbing the trucker’s wrist, is, ‘What I think is maybe you should stop touching me.’ He says this casually, and there’s only the barest hint of a threat in his voice. He lets go of the trucker’s wrist.
The trucker throws a punch that lands on Spencer’s cheek. There’s a crack over the dull thump. This whole time I’m standing there not sure of what to do, because I’ve never been in a fight before. But it’s too late to think because one of them grabs me from behind and another starts throwing punches while I’m defenceless. At the same time Spencer is regaining his balance and wiping blood from his face, telling the trucker he’s going to regret that one.
Those endorphins that Spencer spoke about, that adrenaline rush, it’s really filling me with each punch. The grip on me from behind is tight, but I throw my head back and it connects with something, maybe somebody’s jaw. There’s as much pain in the back of my skull as I’m sure there is in my attacker’s face because he lessens his grip on me. Then I’m looking at the guy who’s been throwing punches into my stomach and face, and I knock him to the ground.
The fight lasts a minute, maybe two. It’s quick and it’s brutal, but it’s also clumsy. Punches are thrown at any opportunity, regardless of where the blow lands. There are three of them and two of us, but somehow we get the upper hand. This might be because I take one man out of the equation with a blow to the balls and leave him curled in the foetal position moaning.
Spencer kicks at one of the men on the ground, maybe breaking a rib.
We leave the three truckers in the dirt and dust outside the pub, our own faces bloody and knuckles torn and bruised. Spencer looks at me and laughs. The stitches in my face have come loose and my palm is split open. Spencer has a gash across his cheek and a split lip. I spit blood onto the ground and wonder if I have all of my teeth.
Spencer pats me on the back and says, ‘Let’s get back to that doctor for another round of needle and thread before he shuts up for the day.’ He’s laughing the whole time, and so am I.
WIDESCREEN
In every game you have a winner, and you have a loser. It doesn’t matter what sport or what competition you’re involved in. Winners and losers. Any game that ends in a draw signifies that the players aren’t willing to play it out until the very end. They aren’t willing to push themselves as far as they can go to win. A game is truly about winning. You can say later that it’s about the thri
ll of the sport, but really when you’re playing the game nothing matters to you but victory. Think about it, and don’t lie to yourself.
There’s even more of a thrill to it when you know you’ve gotten into your opponent’s head and beat him not just in the game, but in his mind. You’ve psychologically fucked him.
I’m not quite sure when I’ve realised it, but I know now that Hayes was grooming me before our game. Taking me into his life, converting me to his brand of cigarettes, trying utterly to convince me of his world view. He was testing me, probing me, readying me for the game.
It’s about eleven on a weekday morning when I’m woken by a knocking at the door of my hostel room. Around me the sheets reek of my own sweat and blood. The thing is, I don’t remember falling asleep, and I don’t remember returning to the hostel last night. I’m just there.
The last thing I remember is Juliet and me wandering through Hyde Park, listening to buskers and sitting on park benches talking quietly to ourselves while the world went by. She said, ‘Those cuts look pretty nasty. What the hell happened to you?’
I told her it was a car accident. That’s the story Spencer has asked me to use, so that Juliet doesn’t worry that he’s been out causing trouble.
She said, ‘The same car accident that Spencer was in?’
I told her it was the very same.
She asked, ‘Whose car?’
I told her it was a rental and explained we’d been in South Australia over the weekend.
Juliet said, ‘Holy shit, you’re telling me you went surfing with Spencer?’
I gave a nod, said yeah.
She said, ‘You see any sharks?’
I said, ‘Nope, not a one.’
She said, ‘Some people would call you crazy.’
I said, ‘We’re all crazy in our own way.’
She laughed at that like she didn’t think it was true.
I said, ‘When I’m on trial, I’m quite sure I’ll plead insanity.’
She thought that I was joking. She said, ‘You shouldn’t be so cynical all the time. Pessimists die young, you know.’
And I wanted to ask her what she knew about dying young, anyway. Do you have a tumour pulsating away in your head? Are you living your last months right now?
Instead, I looked her in the eye and I said, ‘I don’t think that dying young makes any difference if you’ve really lived your life to its fullest.’
‘It’s debatable,’ she said. ‘I mean, what’s really living life to its fullest?’
We were walking arm in arm along a wide path, alone in the night, with trees clouding over us like giant shading arches and blocking the night sky. I didn’t give her an answer to the question, mostly because I wasn’t sure if there was one. Your ideals can change from day to day if you’re faced with enough perspective-altering experiences. I didn’t think I had any interest in Juliet, but she’s growing on me.
But anyway, somebody is knocking on my door, and it’s not last night anymore, and I’m feeling neither awake nor asleep.
I tell the door to wait. Hold on a second. Quit knocking so loud. I take a handful of pills that the doctor prescribed to help my tumour. They calm me and keep me thinking clearly. Help me to maintain rationality.
I load a gun and stuff it into the jacket on the floor, keep it by my feet.
I go to the door.
There are two men in suits who pull their identification and ask if they can have a word. The taller one does all the talking. He introduces himself as Kilby and his associate is Hensen. Hensen works for Immigration but Kilby doesn’t clearly identify where he’s from, he dances away from that issue like it’s not so relevant. They inform me that they’re acting on behalf of an outside, international agency. Interpol, maybe. As if this makes them more important to me.
Kilby is saying, ‘Sir, we understand you came to the country on a flight from Cambodia.’
I say, ‘No.’
Kilby is frowning when Hensen corrects him. ‘It was a flight from Hong Kong. You transferred from a Cambodian flight.’
I say, ‘Correct.’
Kilby says, ‘Okay, so we’re playing specifics? Fine.’ He’s irritated. I know that my immediate lack of cooperation is pissing him off. Hensen shrugs.
Kilby produces a photograph and hands it to me. He asks, ‘Do you recognise this man?’
Of course I recognise this man. It’s a photograph of Hayes, the same one depicted in his passport that I was carrying in Cambodia. He’s beaming toward the photographer, flashing his teeth like a wolf to its victim. He’s wearing the same jacket that’s crumpled on the floor of my room, the same jacket I’ve bundled my gun into.
I say, ‘Yes, I recognise him.’
Kilby says, ‘Apparently the body of this man was found dead over a week ago in Vietnamese swampland. He’d been shot in the head.’
I nod and say nothing. I’m not going to give them the pleasure of any other reaction.
Kilby raises his eyebrows and says, ‘You don’t seem particularly surprised to hear of his death, I’d have to say.’
I shrug and say, ‘I’m not.’
‘So why would that be?’
I decide I don’t want to play this game. I ask them, ‘What is this? Am I being accused of his murder, or what?’
Hensen is quick to say, ‘No, you’re not.’
I ask, ‘So what’s this all about?’
Kilby says, ‘Can I ask what happened to your face, and your hands?’
I tell them it was a car accident.
Kilby is saying, ‘Car accident?’
I say, ‘Yeah, that’s right. Now what do you want?’
‘We want your cooperation,’ Hensen says. ‘We’ll tell you this much: you’re under suspicion for some pretty heavy crimes, but there’s not enough evidence to indict you.’
Kilby is irritated that Hensen gives away this much. He wants to be in charge. He doesn’t give his associate a chance to continue before he’s saying, ‘We have you linked to a Miss Phoebe McKinley, who is also linked to the dead man, a Mr Hayes. We have you placed in Vietnam around the same time as Hayes’ death. We also have you placed there during the same time period when an unidentified corpse was found on the doorstep of Mr Hayes’ apartment, shot three times.’
Can I explain to them that the unidentified man is my friend the Russian debt collector? Is it possible to say that he collected his debt in a payment of bullets?
Hensen says, ‘We can also place you in Cambodia during the same time a man was known to be using Hayes’ identification, claiming to be the dead man. We have no records of your entry into Cambodia, but we have records of your departure from the country.’ There’s a beat before he asks me, his voice full of mock sympathy, ‘Can you explain all of these things?’
I tell them I could explain it all, but I’m not prepared to. They say that they want to take me into custody for further questioning. Apparently they have the power to do this.
I tell them I’ll come willingly. ‘Did you come alone?’ I ask them. ‘Or are there police waiting outside?’
They’re alone, they tell me.
That’s all I need to hear. Gathering up my jacket I drop the gun into my hand and Kilby is spraying blood against the wall before the shot has even finished rattling my ears. I’m glad to see the impatient prick go down, blood looping from the puncture in his chest as he tumbles backward.
In slow motion, Hensen is wide-eyed and turns to run, but I catch him in the shoulder with the first bullet and in the hip with the second. The first shot twists him left, the second right. Then he’s down.
My possessions are the clothes that I wear and the gun in my hand, the guns in my bag, the identification and money in my pocket.
I’m out the door even before Hensen has finished dying, leaking blood onto the linoleum floor.
At eleven in the morning at a backpacker hostel, there’s nobody present but the cleaning staff. The tourists are busy out there somewhere seeing the world.
; There’s a cleaning woman standing in the hall outside my door. Maybe she’s heard the gunshots, and I have an impulse to shoot her, too. She’s a short Asian woman, and she’s standing there with a mop twice her height. She’s looking up at me, and she says, ‘I clean yo’ room now, huh?’
I’m hiding the gun behind my back where she can’t see it. I’m thinking of the two bodies in the room, and I’m thinking of excuses to get this woman away from here. She’s looking over my shoulder, into the room. I’m waiting for her screams, the sight of blood on the walls, bodies crumpled on the floor. It never comes.
She doesn’t even raise an eyebrow.
I’m looking back over my shoulder, into the room as she edges past me with her bucket and mop. The little Asian lady starts to mop the blood from the floor around the two bodies. The soapy water in the bucket turns pink when the mop goes in and out.
I shake my head in disbelief, and the cleaning woman is humming a tune.
There’s nobody at the service desk as I rush outside, and so far as I’m aware nobody has heard the gunshots. I stuff the gun into my jacket to keep it concealed and—déjà vu—take the nearest bus.
I don’t care where the bus takes me. An old man asks me if I have the time, and I tell him, no, I fucking don’t. Leave me alone.
I’m sweating and my heart is beating in time with my tumour, and my hands are shaking.
I want to light a cigarette, but the packet is empty.
I want to get off the bus.
I’m suddenly feeling very claustrophobic.
‘Stop the bus!’ I scream. I’m standing in the aisle, swaying dizzily. I don’t want to cause a scene. I just want to get off.
The bus comes to a screeching halt. Everybody is staring at me.
I make my way down the aisle, clutching my chest. I’m having difficulty breathing.
Somebody says, ‘What the hell is his problem?’
I stand at the front of the bus and the doors hiss open. The driver tells me to hurry up. I look back at the other passengers, their expressions disgruntled or bewildered. I tell them to, ‘Stop staring. You’re all going to die one day, too, you know.’
